Of the Heart and Lungs
by AvianInk
Summary: A cold has followed Natasha home from her trip with Bruce, and she isn't keen on admitting it, much less letting Bruce help her.


**[A/N]** Hello, lovelies! New year, same Brucenat feels. This one was requested through my tumblr (where I sometimes post little ficlets/drabbles that don't get posted here, by the by!). I hope you all enjoy. :)

MOSAICS Chapter 14 coming out next Friday!

* * *

Yet another cough threatened to rattle her lungs loose. It seemed the more she willed her body to stop acting sick, the more it wanted to prove her wrong. She just wanted to get through a shower and start packing for their next trip, but a cough and some chills were determined to get in her way.

Steam rose in swirls from the showerhead. The heat radiated off her skin, which had grown pink from the temperature. Though she hadn't lingered long, a defined haze settled in the bathroom. The mirror was probably a slab of condensed fog at this point. Yet, despite this, the scalding spray didn't warm her. The handle was cranked as far into the red zone as possible, but her body craved more heat.

What did she have to do — plunge herself into a volcano? At this point, if it singed the stuffiness in her chest and eviscerated the perpetual cold, she would do it.

Yet another earthquake cough took over so fast that she dropped the bottle of shampoo.

As she crouched down for it, warding off another hack, there came a voice at the bathroom door. The steady spray swallowed most of the volume, but none of the concern. "Hey, Nat, that sounds pretty bad."

 _Dammit._ She warded Bruce off by saying, "I'm fine."

She could've lied to him, told him that she swallowed water on accident or something. He was one of the two or three people in this world of billions she didn't have to deceive, that she could be herself around. "I'm fine" wasn't technically a lie anyway, because she was. It would take a lot more than a bad cough and minor congestion to take her down.

Quieter, so much so that she almost missed it, he said, "I could hear you from downstairs."

Internally, she repeated her curse. It didn't matter how much she insisted — he wouldn't believe her until she showed him how fine she was. She called back, "It's under control. I'll be right out."

There came a mumble of, "Okay."

For the third time, she mentally swore. He was worried, which meant the longer she stayed in the shower, the worse he'd feel.

Since she'd already been in the bathroom a bit longer than usual, it wasn't a problem to speed through the rest of her routine. Before shutting off the water, she hacked pus yellow saliva into the drain and let it wash away.

Sure enough, a layer of condensation frosted the mirror. She took no time to wait for evaporation; with a towel fastened around her, she emerged to find Bruce sitting on a corner of their bed.

It took a surprising amount of effort to resist clearing her throat, which felt a little stoppered. She suppressed it, then closed the distance between them. Her fingers slipped into his hair instantly. Droplets of residual moisture followed their path as she stroked the sides of his head.

"I'm okay." She affirmed. A grin still came easy, which further confirmed to her that whatever she had wasn't serious.

His chin tilted down to the hem of the towel. A single hand started to fidget with the cloth as he fretted, "Maybe we should...hold off on—"

"Don't." She instructed, soft but firm, stomach dropping a tad. _Don't say we should cancel the trip._ Hiking and camping in Washington state for a week had been their exciting, exhausting endeavor. In complete honesty, it was also probably where she contracted this infinitesimal cold, but that was insignificant. Indonesia was supposed to be the relaxing follow-up. Somehow, Bruce had never been there.

Granted, most of her time had been spent in Jakarta, which he wouldn't adore, but there was so much more than the bustling city. Bali, listening to the waves, real jungle, widespread vibrance — there was a meditative tranquility to it that he would love. She knew he would. They couldn't forgo it, especially not on account of something as trivial as a minor illness.

She gave his scalp a light squeeze and bent down to peck the crown of his head. "I'm gonna get us lunch." Baffled in her wake, she left him on the bed and headed into their closet.

"Gonna...wait—" Hurried footsteps followed her in. She tossed him a glance with a quirked brow over her shoulder and dropped her towel. Unfortunately for her, that didn't stall him whatsoever. "You're going out?"

She tugged a plain red shirt into place. "We don't have much here." They'd cleared out their fridge before Washington, which meant they were left with mostly frozen vegetables and miscellaneous snacks.

"I could make a stir-fry." He insisted.

With her jeans on but unbuttoned and unzipped, she pivoted to him. "You don't want me to go out." It was meant as a playful accusation.

He took it seriously. "You're sick."

"I told you," she said, sealing herself into her pants, "I'm fine." She grabbed a pair of socks, boots, plus a jacket, then slipped around him.

He trailed behind her all the way to the door.

As she finished her preparations to go out, he offered, "I can go."

"You could," she acknowledged. An itch tickled her throat. She ordered it to retreat.

"Natasha—"

"Forty minutes." It was more than enough time for her to walk to the place, get an order in, wait, and walk back.

It didn't put him at ease.

There was a sigh behind her as she took her keys and some cash, then shut the door.

* * *

Thirty-two minutes until she's back. With her, she carried a bag of wontons, dumplings, and chow fun. On the way back, she was proud to say she'd coughed less than a dozen times. She wouldn't tell Bruce about that victory. Actually, the walk up their townhouse stairs had her a little winded — but only a little.

After a moment to collect her breathing and curse at the sticky phlegm in her chest, she entered their home.

Inside, Bruce was positioned on the couch with his most recent read. In the entryway, she shed her shoes, deposited her keys, and went to the kitchen with their food.

A bottle of cough syrup greeted her.

"It's for your cough."

He'd walked in behind her.

"Yeah, I got that." She responded, rounding to the other side of the counter where she could survey him. The bottle could've been a pillar in the middle of the room, obstructing the atmosphere between them. She unpacked cartons. The next move was his, and she wouldn't say anything until he did.

"You don't have to take it," he said, "but it'd help."

He cared. A lot. In fact, he even loved her, which still amazed her everyday. For that, and the acts of that love, she couldn't fault him — not when they involved him getting medicine for a minor illness. She could take care of herself, could've gone out and gotten her own medicine. He knew that. This wasn't about irritation or hovering. This was proving a point. She was fine.

As she picked some dumplings for her plate, she gave her reply. "I'll save some for the plane."

"Um…" His lips wrinkled and folded in on itself as she took a bite. "I don't think they'll let you in a carry-on…"

Her eyebrows lifted in a challenge as she brought wooden chopsticks to her mouth again. The steam from the food felt good for her chest…but not her stomach.

There's a pause, where she straightened, lowered the chopsticks, and asked herself, _Is this really_ —

The possession of nausea claimed her stomach before she could finish the question, much less find the answer. Her one saving grace was swiping the bottle of cough syrup in the rush to the bathroom.

Vegetable and dumpling mush splattered the white lid first, then spill into the porcelain bowl, splashing unceremoniously into the limpid water.

It had been years since she puked and, honestly, she'd forgotten how it felt. That meant she forgot how it burned up and down, made her stomach vacate her body like a fleeing ghost, and how much she hated the grotesque emptiness that followed.

Another heave shuddered upward, spewed her partially digested breakfast right out. The grunts of her own retching bounced off the sides directly into her ears. The footsteps that ran into the bathroom were part welcome distraction and shame-inducing. No matter who it was, she hated anyone seeing her like this — with her body essentially turning itself inside out. She contemplated shutting the door with her foot, but a third retch threw that idea down the drain, along with the rest of today's stomach contents.

Bruce fell to his knees. Hands gathered her blonde hair away from her face. He secured all the strands in one grip, then slid a flat palm onto her back.

Of course, her body would betray her now. A particularly nasty, rib-shaking cough follows, conjuring a glob of too yellow mucus and bile with it. In one hand that's pressed to the side of the toilet, she still clung to the bottle of medicine. As if it would do her any good.

Three heaves, one bad cough, and the epidemic was over. Everything was back under control.

Or so she thought. After lingering in the toilet for a moment too long, she pushed herself away and started to clean up the inside of the lid.

"I can—"

"I got it."

He was trying to be nice — she knew that. But if she didn't do this, if she wasn't the one to pick up the literal and figurative pieces of herself, then everything wasn't alright. She wanted this fixed and under control. There'd been so much helplessness in her past; she didn't want it sneaking into the life she built with Bruce.

They've been together long enough know, shared countless experiences, so she knew what he might say if she voiced any of this.

But he sat on the floor behind her and murmured, "I don't think we should go to Indonesia."

Her world cracked a little then. No matter how quiet he said it, the words echoed in a canyon within herself. This meant he thought she was too sick to travel, which meant she had actually contracted a serious illness. It was nothing eternal and nothing incurable. He might've been okay with that, with postponing or cancelling, with her being sick, but she's not.

* * *

Once a new eve draped over their home, she began the process of packing their bags.

A fair amount of tense silence passed following the puking incident earlier. Thankfully, it was short-lived; she convinced Bruce to hold off on cancelling the plane tickets and lodging. With a compromise in place, the atmosphere in their house slackened. Bruce ate, she swallowed some pride and a small dose of stiff cough syrup, and he set up the couch and TV for a movie. Sickness was not a common feature in her day-to-day life, so figuring out what to do with the remaining hours presented a small challenge. That's what the movie and miniature blanket fort was for, apparently. Bruce took over — which she gladly let him — and scrolled through the horror genre on their streaming service until she pointed out something. Then, with her body fixed between his legs, he wrapped a blanket around both and let the horribly predictable events onscreen unfold.

It was a little nice, admittedly, to have someone take care of her — to let someone she trusted take the wheel for a bit. She would've felt guiltier normally, but she already had a plan before the movie even started.

Two films passed with a fair amount of interruptions for her hacking. In between, Bruce quickly made some rice for her, picked some leftovers for him. Before the climax of the second, which was definitely better than the overly-gory first, she fell asleep curled into him. He didn't mind her coughing, and roused her only to use the bathroom and grab a book, then to go to bed.

Her napping hadn't been part of the plan, but assisted in getting him to sleep before her. When he's comfortable — which is more often than not, nowadays — his unconsciousness stretches deep.

It was no problem pulling some clothes from their closet, some items from the bathroom, and retreating into the loft to pack. Their empty suitcases awaited. More often than not, they took up residence out in the open instead of some closet — always ready to go when needed or desired. A perfect example: a trip to Indonesia. Where they would be going in five days. Because Bruce would love it, and she would definitely love it and would absolutely not be the reason they didn't go.

Both of their lifestyles and histories imbued them with the habit of packing light and efficient. Despite that, folding shirts, shorts, jeans, and whatnot tired her out as much as a workout. Logically, thanks to a swift diagnosis from Bruce, she knew the easy fatigue accompanied the pneumonia that likely ailed her. Recognizing that, however, didn't assuage her annoyance at herself.

The aggravation didn't fuel her like it usually did; instead, it did the opposite and exasperated the fatigue. To add on, a tide of nausea coasted in. Even if this was her body's way of trying to exorcise the sickness, she was obstinate. There was no way she'd vomit twice within 24 hours. She would get better, and she would go on this trip with her partner.

To get through the vertiginous swirl of a moment, though, she stacked the remainder of folded clothes and rested her arms and forehead atop them. Her tongue both craved and abhorred the idea of water. The best she could do was to inhale long and deep through her nose, then release it bit by bit from her mouth. When a cough struck, her chest braced, she lifted her face away from the clothes, and pushed the heaving out of her as fast as she could.

The process cycled like that until she lost track of minutes in the night. With how heavy her eyelids and entire body felt, plus the constant dark from all corners — from their bedroom to the skylights — it was impossible to tell whether it was eleven at night, one in the morning, or the hour before sunrise. The way she was coughing now, though, made her doubtful about getting any sort of decent rest.

Breathing, heaving, thinking about how she contracted this, continued ceaselessly. Until a light flicked on and Bruce joined her on the floor.

If this was anyone else, it might be an embarassing state to find her in. It's him, though. There's not a trace of humiliation as he pulled her body, wracked with yet another hacking spell, into his. If anything, there's a touch of remorse at getting caught. Relief flooded it away. Being held was too much of a comfort to feel anything negative.

A whisper drifted into her ear once she stopped shuddering. "What are you doing?" Gentle hands stroked her hair, despite its greasy feel.

"Packing," she said after clearing the thick mucus out of her throat.

"Nat…" He sighed into her, warm air flowing over her roots.

"Let's say I took some antibiotics. This would clear up pretty quick then." She stated, presenting evidence before the proposal.

Fingertips trailed to the base of her skull, traced wide swirls onto the nape of her neck. "Not fast enough to make it okay for you to fly next week."

"We could reschedule." Of that, she was positive. It was a reasonable idea. He'd have to pull something pretty damn convincing and supernatural out of his ass if he was going to refute it.

He didn't. "You'll take some antibiotics?"

Usually, she'd kiss him. In fact, she almost did — raised her head, and he didn't stop her — but a small cough, more like a clearing of her throat, interrupted, and she settled for curling back into him instead.

When the morning came, Bruce let her sleep while he rearranged dates and reservations. It only took one phone call for him to realize that she'd already done all the reorganizing yesterday. That left his morning open to crawl back into bed with her as she tried to steal snatches of sleep. It was much easier with him beside her.


End file.
